Friday, November 20, 2009

Everyone has those moments in time where everything stops. Time stands still and an image is frozen forever in your mind. No matter where life takes you, when you think of that time, that moment, that place, or view, you are right back there and everything is the same. For me, one of those moments involves a girl named Ann.

Background Details (to set the stage):

I met Fred at club. I was 17 or 18 and had gone out for a rare night of fun with a friend. Even rarer still was that there was even a club in Baton Rouge for people our age. Club M. Looking back it was a cheap, stupid place to hang. It was a converted church, the big fellowship hall converted for moshing. Dank and churchy smelling bathrooms, gravel lot. The works. My fellow club goers that night were the usual. Steven was moshing by him self and throwing himself into a pole (so funny and so lame), Michael (my friend) and her sisters were trying to mack with the long haired guys, and I was kinda feeling left out. The usual. Loud music, classmates I didn't like, expensive drinks, etc... This was back when the legal limit was 18. How old am I. Anyway, midnight comes around and Michael says we have to go soon. Her mom is coming to get us. Shit, just when I was warming up to the social scene. "I don't fucking want to go home," I yelled. That's where Fred comes in. Up walks this hot looking guy and says "Where do you want to go?" WTF! He was very cute and talking to me. Long story short, I left with Fred. He was a catholic school guy and very sweet. Very tall. Had a beautiful silver moonbeam like streak in the front of his hair. We stayed out till 5:00 am just talking. We had a great time. It was awesome, we totally got each other. Me and a Catholic High guy? Hell was sleeting, sleeting I tell you.

We hung out quite a bit that summer. He was smart and sweet and handsome and liked me. It was weird, but what the hell. He liked that I was so far away from all his other friends and that I didn't know anybody else he did. It was like we had each other to ourselves. He has a girlfriends and looking back I see this was a bit of a line. But, I didn't care. We had fun, made out, a little mouth nooky here and there, teenage stuff...

So, summer is over and school starts. We've lost touch a bit and he calls. He's having a big party and invites me and some friends to come. At the party we are all laughing and joking and talking about how we met. I, innocently I may add, say that Fred and I kinda dated over the summer. Fred gets the blankest look on his face and then says, knife poised ready to stab through my heart, "Oh, yeah. We did do that, huh?"

!!!!!!What????!!!!!

I was devastated. Do you know how hard it is to give head to a guy in a gremlin when he only has maybe five inches to work with? Well, actually, not that hard. You get the idea. I was floored. Surely we had shared some special moments? I waited a few minutes and went outside to sulk.....

Here we go, the real story:

I grabbed a drink and a lounge chair outside by the pool and was determined to drink my self pity away. And, I saw her.

Ann.

Long brown hair. Long legs. Dancing and gyrating, beer in hand. Spinning and twirling.

She was dancing in an empty pool. All alone, not a care in the world. The most melodic music I had ever heard was playing on a small cd player sitting on the ledge of the pool. I sat and watched for for what seemed like hours. Sipping my drink and thinking of how beautiful a scene I was beholding. I softly asked what she was listening to. "Jeff Buckley" she replied. I had never heard of him, but would never forget him from that night on. I had looked at women before, seen them as beautiful, complex creatures. Wondered what made the pretty ones tick and the ugly ones sad. I had felt attraction before, but always pushed it back. Telling myself that it was wrong, that I was screwed up for thinking those thoughts. That someone would know. Not that night. That night, as I looked at that dancing girl in the pool, it broke free. It felt right, that desire, that longing, the need to feel someone so close. That night, I became officially bisexual.

I'd love to tell you that she noticed me, too, That we fucked like rabbits. But, no. No such thing. I sauntered back to the inside of the party and left her dancing by herself. She barely noticed I was there, yet I never forgot she was.

A few months later I saw her again at a frat party. Turns out, she was a slut. A friend I went with said she hit all the keggers and got shitfaced/laid at all of them. I saw her up close. She wasn't really all that, she was o.k. Do-able. Eh, still nothing could take away that night. I think of it everytime I hear "Last Good-bye"....must I dream and always see your face....

A few months later I had my first full fledged crush on a girl. She worked at the bookstore. I worked at Natural Wonders, right across from Waldenbooks. I would go in everyday to look at her. She was so beautiful. Half-Vietnamese.Super smart and smart ass/sassy. Black hair, brown black eyes. Her name was Ann, too.

What is it about Anns? Anyway, the memories came to this week after I dug out my old cds. Just thought I'd share.

Note: Never saw Fred after this party. Heard he went to Texas A&M for college. Go figure. He really was small.

Back when I had dreams of being a fancy lady, I worked in a flowershop. Beautiful flowers, candles, and tapestries filled the shop. Everyday something new came in to fawn over. Sounds heavenly, right? Well, if I have learned anything from my nearly 25 years (shut up) on this earth I have learned this: the easier and cooler you think a job will be the more it will suck. Underpaid, overworked, resposible for training idiots to answer the phone (.....fifth ring people, answer the fucking phone!), fights among the family who owned the place, snotty rich bitch customers, no days off in February, May, or October through December. Yeah, lots of fucking fun. It was miserable. Whoever wrote "My Fair Lady" should be shot repeatedly with a sling shot full of hepatitis filled hypodermic needles until dead.

I have literally stood on my feet from 7:30 am to 1:30 am making corsages and bouquets, all while being the PHONE DESK MANAGER and still responsible for ANSWERING THE PHONE! Not to mention lighting Christmas trees until tree sap has eaten through the skin on my knuckles, wrapped rusty wire in floral tape until my hands bled, and the bows..... I have made more fucking bows in my life than I care to remember. I can make bows in my fucking sleep. Seriously, if I were in a coma you could still put a streamer of ribbon in my hands and get the bow of your dreams. I have been cursed at, yelled at, hung up on, cried to, and had things thrown at me. I have busted my ass while other co-workers were upstairs giving/getting blow jobs and smoking weed. Three and a half years. Three and a half years, people! Why put up with this crap? Because of the co-workers of course! I had some fucking awesome co-workers.

Which leads me to the story of who is probaly my most favorite co-worker of all time. Brent. Brent was the shit. Part sweetheart, part batshit insane, Brent was the single reason I clocked in some days. Brent was the blackest sheep you could get from a really, really rich white family in town. His family owned land everywhere, had a very sucessful contracting business, bank, and countless other sources of great wealth. Brent was a delivery driver. He rode a bike to work. He had no car.

Let me repeat the last part, he was a delivery driver. He had no car.

He had a car the first week he worked with us. In the middle of the summer, with the doors closed and the windows up, he cleaned the dash with ammonia and bleach. He damn near killed himself in the parking lot. He ate raw garlic because he read garlic was good for your heart. He ate salmon and black beans straight out of the can, three meals a day, for five months. He rarely bathed, wore no deodorant (because that stuff causes cancer) and never, ever washed his hair. He lived in motel with the prostitues. He once gave me a fax machine. He made homemade foam inserts for shoes and tried to sell them to the ladies at work because he was concerned about them standing on their feet all day. He posted a pair on the bulletin board at work and I serioulsy think some of his pubic hair was in it. There was hair all tangled in the foam. He then FED EX'D a pair to our bosses house. He FED EX'd something to the house of a man he saw in person every single day of the week. Fed Ex'd.

Man, he thought I hung the moon. Seriously, he had the major hots for me. Thought I was gorgeous. Said I had the face of an angel. I...shit...you...not. The face of an angel.

Did I mention that I was about six months pregnant when I worked with him? Didn't think so.

Anyway, in comes Brent one nice shiny day. Up to the phone desk he trots and proceeds to tell me he needs a favor. He has an order to place. See, Brent is taking his vacation and is headed to North Carolina. For a Creed concert. He is flying, bought a plane ticket specifically for the purpose of, seeing Creed in concert. Batshit insane? Yes. Does it get better? Hell, yes. He has an order to place, remember? God, are you people even reading this shit?

Brent: You know, nice healthy organic stuff. I wanna spend about a hundred bucks. Make it really nice.

Me: $100.00? Who the hell is this for?

(Remember, he is a delivery driver and lives in a motel. With prostitutes and shit. $100.00.)

Brent: Scott Stapp. You know, from Creed? The lead singer.

Me: (guess my response, anyone?)

Silence ensues as I proceed to give what may very well be the stupidest look I have ever given another human being. I experience what is know as the bottle neck effect. Too many things flood to my mind, insults, laughter, more insults. Nothing will come out. My mind in numb and overloaded. System failure, I repeat, system failure.

(After significant pause......)

Me: Um...O....K... What do you want on the card message?

Brent: Oh, I wrote my own. Actually, it's a letter.

(Long pause......)

Me: Um....O...K....and just how am I supposed to get that put on the basket?

Brent: Oh, I'm gonna bring it with me. I'll go by the flowershop and attach it myself.

(Mind you, I have to call this order in to complete strangers, in North Carolina and tell them it is for Scott Stapp of Creed, tell them the kooky shit that this guy wants, AND tell them that the kooky fucker is coming to their shop to bring in a handwritten letter to attach. And yes, we do in fact employ this guy and pay him money to deliver flowers for us.)

(....pause...)

Me: Um...dude? Why did you write a letter to Scott Stapp?

Brent: Well, I think we may be related. See, I'm part native american and he's part native american. I think we may be from the same tribe.

(I am in a complete state of stupification. I may have wet myself.)

Me: Um.......

Brent: Hey, ask the flowershop if I can come by the next day. I want to get the invoice from them with his SIGNATURE on it. I want his autograph.

I can not make this shit up, people. A week later he came back from vacation.

Brent: Hey, guess what. Me and my brother went back stage and met the band. Hey, he never got my basket with the letter. What do you think happened?

Me: I think maybe a roadie signed for it and ate it. Dude, that sucks.

One night a man had a dream, maybe a flashback, he wasn't sure. He dreamed he was walking along the beach with the Lord. As he stepped over dirty hypodermic needles in the sand (must have been in Jersey), across the sky flashed scenes from his life. For each scene, henoticed two streaks of bloody footprints in the sand:One belonging to him, and the other to the Lord.

When the last scene of his life flashed before him, helooked back at the bloody footprints in the sand.

He noticed that many times along the path of his lifethere was only one set of footprints. He also noticedthat it happened at the very lowest and saddesttimes in his life. Times when he was shooting up, stealing money from churches, addicted to meth, in prison, beating his wife, getting shot by cops, burned with a crack pipe, tasered, homeless, hungry, out of work, turning tricks, hanging out with hookers, and partially blind.

This really bothered him and he questioned the Lord about it. "Lord, My mamma said that once I decided to follow you, You'd walk with me all the way. But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of footprints and they are bloody. I don't understand why when I needed you most you would leave me."

The Lord replied,"Followed me? You 're a dick. What the hell have you been smoking? My son, you are an asshole. I stabbed you in the leg with a soldering iron. "

1) Set off the fire alarm. You will have to evacuate the building. Since you will have to leave the building, you might as well take this time to go get a drink.

2) If you answer the phone and can immediately tell that the person on the other line is an idiot, subtly and casually hang up on them and go to the bathroom. Since there are rarely phones in the bathroom, this means someone else will have to answer that line and deal with them when they call back. Don't worry. They will explain to the person that they must have been accidentally disconnected and will apologize on your behalf.

3) If someone pisses you off at work remember: Anger entitles you to free office supplies.

4) Having an extremely large booger is a medical condition. You may call in sick for this. You may also call in sick for dandruff, foot fungus, and genital warts. These are all legitimate medical conditions.

5) Be Jewish. I can not stress this enough. Being Jewish adds 16 more religious holidays to the mix. Mexican Jews can add Cinco de Mayo as well. You will most likely already be off for New Years, July 4th, Memorial Day, Good Friday, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. That is a full month of holidays.

6) Start smoking. Smokers get more breaks. These breaks are on the company dime.

7) Unless you work in a morgue, looking presentable is a job requirement. Petty cash is your friend. Spend it getting your nails done.

8) Don't waste energy working harder, work smarter. Making your co-workers look bad makes you look better. Look at your co-workers desk. That's a lot of paper. There must be something there that needs to be shredded.

9) Stop wasting your hard earned money going out to lunch. There is plenty of food in the refrigerator and it won't cost you a dime.

10) When updating your resume, learn the difference between "On the job training" and "Hands on training." The key is in the wording. On the job training means you've seen it done before. Hands on training means you've actually done the job. Do not confuse the two. Let us use these in a sentence to clarify the difference. For example: I experienced "on the job" training as a gourmet chef. I have "hands on training" adding food coloring to ground meat to make it look fresher so we can sell it two weeks after its expiration date. Now, which one would you hire to cater your next company Christmas party?

A few weeks ago I took Delilah to the Dollar Tree. For those of you who don't have one around, it's a store that sells crap. Everything is a dollar. That kinda thing. I only went to get some cheap candy for some halloween treat bags I am making for her class. I know, I know. What a good mommy.

Well, when we got outside to the car I saw she had some big green glass pebbles in her hand. She loves rocks. A couple of weeks ago I thought the belt was going out in the washing machine. Nope, just a pocket full of gravel from the playground. Anyway, I asked her where she got them. She looked down at the ground and mumbled "from the store." They were the kinda glass pebble things you put in a fish bowl or something. I remembered seeing a broken open bag scattered all over the floor. She didn't realize that it was merchandise. Hell, to a kid it probaly just looked like trash. So, I didn't bring her back into the store to apologize. I really don't think she completely understood what she did was wrong. I couldn't have really paid for four glass pebbles anyway. I've worked in retail before, we would have thrown this crap away. I scolded the hell of her though. I explained how stealing was very wrong and people that steal go to jail and don't see their mommy or daddy or mama kitty again. It was right about the mama kitty part that she cried. Not mama kitty!!!

She was quiet the whole ride home (because I told her not to even breathe heavy) and I made her come home and tell her daddy what she did. First offense, all was easily forgiven and forgotten.

So, this weekend I took her on some errands with me. Saturday we went to Hobby Lobby and Target to get some supplies to make a gift basket for bosses day. We went to the kitchen gadget aisle where she pointed out the "Cheese Scratchers."

"The what?" I asked.

"It's a cheese scratcher, mommy. You scratch in on the cheese and make the cheese little."

I almost wet myself in Target.

She was very good. When we got into the car to go home she asked me if she had been good. "Yes," I replied, "you were a very good girl."

"Mommy, I didn't stole nothing."

All was good. The next day, we went to Walmart (shut up, it's cheap) for some medicine. The aisle was very crowded and out of the corner of my eye I saw her move the empty buggy in front of us out of the way. The man that was using the buggy looked around and played silly with her.

"Now, dang it! Where did that buggy go? It was right here." He looked down at her. "Did you take my buggy?"

She was silent. He was being very friendly and silly but she was silent. I didn't think anything of it. So, I played along.

"Delilah Jade! Did you steal that man's buggy?" I gasped. "The Walmart police and gonna come and take you to Walmart jail!"

I was joking with her.

She was devastated. HUGE crocodile tears and sobbing ensued. I apologized profusely. I told her I was only joking.

She awoke to the sound of grunting and slicing. Gingerly, she touched her left temple. It was warm and sticky and wet. Her long hair felt dirty and damp. Her vision was blurred. She smelled it again. She'd know that smell anywhere. It was that fucking cheese.***She'd only had the job working for her brother for six days. He is her foster brother. She is an orphan, they both are. Without each other they are completely alone. In a system that constantly tears things apart; they have never been apart for more than a month at a time since they were six. They know they are the lucky ones. They aren't even really related, but the bond between them is unbreakable. They are inseparable, co-dependant, joined at the hip, symbiotic. They are the only constant in each other's lives. The only family they have is each other.***She saw him for the first time the day after Christmas. The mall was flooded with people shopping for the same old crap nobody needed or wanted two days before. But, it was on sale now. Now, everything was appealing. Well, except the cheese. Nobody was looking at the cheese. She had stood in the storefront, bored out of her mind for five hours straight without anyone coming in. Even free samples of baby Swiss couldn't detract from the sales everywhere. Who needs cheese when you can get pleather pants for 50% off? Gouda can't hold a candle to Santa sweaters when they are buy one get one free. Cheese, well, cheese is cheese. It doesn't really go on sale.

***She was laying on her back, naked in the dark. The floor around her was smooth and cold. She was hurt. She could not remember how she got there. She recognized the scent, but couldn't put a name to it. Her head was throbbing. She could barely remember her own name. The odor was so strong; she twisted onto her left side and threw up. Oh, yeah, that helped.

***She was behind the counter reading when he came in. She didn't even hear the door open. She was lost in the same James Ellroy novel, which she had read a hundred times before. When she looked up he was staring at her. She knew that stare. She had been in the system; you saw a lot of those stares in the system. Empty as a grave.

He asked for a wheel of Pecorino Romano. A large one. A local catering company had wiped them out the week before to cater a charity dinner for the mayor's office. They did one every year. $1000.00 a plate. The money was supposed to go into to a fund set up to send foster kids to college. She'd been in and out of foster care for 17 years and hadn't met a soul who it had benefited from that fund.

She told him the largest they could order was a 65 one and would cost him around $600.00. He paid cash up front and said he would be back in a two weeks for it. The entire encounter lasted less than ten minutes. She was glad he was gone. Because she knew that stare. She slid the display of knives on the counter a little closer.

***When she was a kid, she always slept with a knife. She got her first one when she was about seven. She stole it from a foster mother's kitchen. She didn't find a use for it until she was ten. An older boy of sixteen had tried to slip into her bed. She stabbed him in the thigh. Femoral artery. He wasn't around to bother her after that. She was lucky. They just called it self-defense and they took her knife away. She had her knives taken away a lot over the years. She always managed to find another and every time they were taken away, she got better at hiding the next one.

***It was a month before he came to pick up the cheese. It was the beginning of February and it was colder than she could ever remember it being in this part of the country. He came in and waited quietly while she was ringing up two elderly women. She hated old customers. They always had to sample everything three times, for free, and rarely bought a damn thing. The few that bought anything made you bust your ass for a five-dollar sale. And they almost always had to write you a fucking check. Her brother told her to be more patient with them because they were probably just old and lonely. He said she would be old someday and she would want someone to show her some kindness. She told her brother that when she was old she wouldn't be a cunt. He just shook his head. He was always the nice one. It was what she loved best about him. Despite their upbringing, he was compassionate.

***She strained to sit up. Her head was throbbing and her nose had started to run. It was freezing in the room. She doubted that even clothing would have helped much. She could hear his breathing, but could barely see him. The windows appeared to be covered with a thick cheesecloth or muslin. The air was thick and heavy with the scent of the vomit and the cheese. It was making her queasy again. She tried to focus on her surroundings. Something was jutting out of the wall at her. It looked like an arm. As she looked closer she saw were multiple carvings on the walls. Human arms, legs, torsos and breasts were in various poses and contortions. They were all finely detailed, the work of a master craftsman. They appeared to be of marble or stone and they looked so smooth that she thought that they must have been lovingly polished for hours on end.

***He wanted to wait for her, but she told him to go home without her. She had detention and with Sister Mary Theresa, she would probably be there twice as long as usual. She hated the nuns and they hated her. They even told her so. She didn't give a damn. It was worth all the detention they could throw at her just to see the look on Sister Mary Theresa's face when she called her a bitch. She would take a thousand detentions for that and not bat an eye. The old bat looked like someone had punched her in the balls. Yeah, she was one manly looking servant of God. She had more facial hair than Father Murphy. No amount of money in the world could convice her that the woman wasn't hiding a hairy nutsack under that habit.

As soon as the nuns let her out, she took off like a bat out of hell. She cut through the same path she always did, behind the school and through woods where the lumberyard used to be. Old man Baker lived by the abandoned yard and was always out front as they passed, with a waving to the kids. The older kids had warned to stay clear of him. That he liked kids. Her brother was too naïve to know what that meant, but she always made sure they ran past the house instead of walking. Racing by this time, she noticed that he wasn't out front. She stopped dead in her tracks. He was always out front. Always.

She knew something wasn't right so she stepped around to the side of the porch. It was later than she was usually out. Perhaps he was already inside for the evening. She crept up slowly and approached the side window to peek in. Her blood ran cold. She knew her brother's cry when she heard it. He was smaller than the other kids and an easy target. She was always in a fight with some dumb punk that had called him a fat ass or a fag or had stolen his homework. She approached the window with trepidation. He was lying face down on a dirty bedspread. Mr. Baker was standing by the bed, getting dressed. She reached into the back of her underpants. This was the second time she used a knife. There was no one around to take it from her this time.***He came back two weeks later and ordered another wheel. He paid cash, upfront again. $600.00. She had taken the day off. Her brother said he asked for her by name. Said he would be back in two weeks.

***She scooted over to the wall to get a closer look at the marble foot. The craftsmanship was superb. It was perfectly formed, a woman's foot, just about the same size as her own. It was porcelain white, pure and smooth. She could hear the grunting and slicing sounds again, but could not see his face. She remained silent, did not so much as ask why she was there. She doubted he would have answered anyway. She went back to staring at the wall.***It was a month to the day when he returned for the wheel of Romano, the middle of March. He waited patiently as she opened the crate and pulled back the excelsior that padded the cheese. She stepped aside for him to inspect it and asked if everything was ok with it. As he stared into her eyes, she felt a chill. He said it was exactly what he was looking for.***

When she was fifteen she did a breif stint in juvie for breaking a guy's leg with a pipe wrench. The guy had caught her brother making out with his boyfriend and had gotten a couple of his friends to help him beat the crap out of them. It wasn't that bad, really. She was tough enough to hold her own against the girls in there and the guards with the groping hands. The first week in, she did two weeks in solitary for breaking a guard's nose. That was before they caught him in the cell of another inmate, who was a twelve year old girl. After that, no one bothered her much. She was released after serving one month of a six month sentence, just to keep her quiet. She certainly knew how to keep quiet.***Her brother was off that day. He and business partner had planned a trip to the coast of Maine. They were celebrating the one year anniversary of having the store open. It had been her brother's dream as a little kid to have a swanky wine and cheese shop. That's probaly part of what contributed to so many of the ass beatings he got over the years from the other guys.

It was late and when she closed up shop. She detected a faint odor right behind her a hair before she felt the blow. One blow to the head and the lights went out around her.

***The longer she was there the easier it became to see. Her eyes begin to focus on what she was seeing. Soft fuzzy shaped sharpened. Colors brightened as details began to reveal themselves. The grunting and the slicing had stopped. She pulled herself up to her feet and leaned against the wall. A new odor was wafting into the room. It was some kind of chemical, sharp and strong. She could taste it in the back of her throat. As she gagged and stumbled forward, her hand landed on the woman's foot and a piece broke off. A ragged red toenail poked through.

***He watched as she recoiled in horror. He knew from experience that he had a very limited window of opportunity. She was in shock now, but before long her defense mechanisms would kick in making it harder for him to subdue her. He watched her hold her head in her hands and slip weakly back down to the floor.

***She watched as he stirred the contents of the bucket. She glanced at the foot and saw that the polish was chipped. The clear lacquer that had encased the foot was now covered in cracks. The scent of decay clogged her nose, making it hard to breath. She was familiar with that smell, too.

She held her hands to her head and rubbed the area just above the base of her skull. Her head throbbed where he had struck he temple, but the back of her head felt just fine.She rocked as she tried to collect her thoughts

***The Romano was ground into a fine powder, like pulverized marble or sand. The glaze was finally mixed and was clear as glass. It was ready to pour over the last piece. He just had one more slice to make.

***She rubbed the back of head as she tried to gather her thoughts. She had to think fast and react faster. She would have felt much more at ease with a knife in her hand.

***He picked up his blade and slowly stood up. She hadn't made a single move forward or back. She was still in shock. She was rocking as she held her head in her hands. She would be an easy one, too. Just like the last one. He slowly put one foot in front of the other.

***She kept her head pointed up to the ceiling and she moved her hands across the base of her skull. Three steps, two steps, one step closer....

***

He thrust his knife at her about a half of a second after she lunged. The strap from beneath her long black hair fell to the floor. His eyes widened in shock as she plunged the two inch blade into his abdomen. Their eyes locked as the next thrust found its target. Directly into his jugular vein. His knife fell, clean as a whistle, onto the tile floor below.

A thousand words......Category: FriendsThis is Hirohito99. I call him Rob. That is his name.

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This is currently my favorite picture in the world. In college I learned to step back and distance myself from the subject in a picture. Don't look at the picture. Feel the picture in your soul. Listen to the photogragh. What does it say to you? Take a picture and tell a story, not about the person in the frame, but of the person outside of it. The parts you don't see. The parts you feel. That is what I plan to do here.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities between the man in this photo and the man in my story are coincidence only. This story is merely inspired and not biography. This picture, like so many, is worth so much more than a thousand words. This is just my interpretation. I have permission to do this and am told that my friend is interested to see where I take this. I hope that I do not disappoint him.

***********************************************************

The man down the hall

You do not know his first name. He is Mr. Bailey to you. You have worked with him for two years and he works down the hall. You have no idea what he really does. He is at work when you arrive in the morning and he is there when you leave. You don't really give it much thought.

He has worked for this company for twelve years. He has seen alot in those twelve years. At work and in the world around him as a whole. He has worked with assholes, he has been an asshole, he has seen an asshole elected in to the White House, not once, but twice now. He tries not to think to much about it. He just wants to do his job and go home.

He is married and has three children, two boys and a girl.His middle child has Down's Syndrome.

But, you don't know that.

He is a member of a church, he runs three miles in the evenings, three times a week. He sends money to childrens charities. He knows what it is like to have and he knows what it is like to not.

He knows what a Salvation Army Christmas feels like. Handouts or handups. Whatever they call them now. He knows what that feels like. He knows the what it feels like to wish you could have done without, instead of receiving charity. He knows the burning feeling of shame. He knows he has too much pride.

When he was a child, he knew that others had it worse than him. He never dwelled on his lot in life. He had perspective, even at a young age. He hated taking the toys that the church brought, the baskets of food. He always worried about the other people that may have missed out because there wasn't enough to go around. He though of that with every bite. He choked down tears sometimes in between swallows. He hated thinking about other people going hungry or kids with no presents at Christmas.

He rarely played with those toys. He usually "forgot" them in a neighborhood kids yard. Always at night, so he wouldn't get caught. He prefered to read anyway. He was thankful that the library was free. He was thankful that the library wasn't charity.

But, you don't know that. You do not know alot of things.

He has been married now for 17 years. He met his wife at church. He is her second husband. They are both 37 years old. She was a widow at the age of 18. She married young after an unplanned pregnancy. She miscarried two months into the marriage after her husband beat the shit out of her. She was a widow three months after that. Aneurysm. He died in his sleep. He was 22.

You are 22. Life can be cruel. You haven't learned that yet, though. You haven't learned alot of things.

At first, he was scared of her. She came to church the first day with the wildest hair he had ever seen. He had heard about her through the youth pastor. She was the youth pastor's wife's little sister. She had made quite a few mistakes. She only came to church that first day because her brother in law and sister made her. It was part of their agreement. Room and board and a chance to start over, she just had to come to church with them. She looked like hell. Like a feral animal, waiting for the first person to give her a reason to attack. Everyone in the congregation stared at her in that way that the hypocritical Christians do. That "judgemental" look.

You don't know that look. Oh, you've given it. Hell, you've gotten it more times than you've peed standing up. You just never noticed.

He waited for her to make eye contact and smiled at her. She looked at him like he was crazy. He kept smiling until she caved in and smiled back. That was pretty much it from there.

He worked his ass off to get through college while helping her study for her G.E.D. He worked two jobs to pay the bills. They didn't have much those first years and there were many times he didn't think they would make it. But, they did. She said their love was enough to get them through anything. There were many times when he wasn't so sure. Plasma labs paid the light bill for the better part of the first three years of their marriage. He never complained. He never took a dime he didn't earn. He suffered depression, but did his damndest to not let it show.

When the babies started coming, they came pretty close together. Eighteen months between the first and the second and just thirteen months between the second and the third. His second son was two months premature and nearly died at birth. He spent more of his first year of life in the hospital than out, which made it really bad when the third one came along.

He lived on four hours of sleep a night for nearly three years. He and his wife took shifts with the kids. Their church members were a Godsend. They was always someone there to help rock one of the sick ones to sleep or step in to help with the housekeeping. He was grateful, but he still hated the help. He swallowed his pride for his family's sake. But, again, he never took a dime he didn't earn. He held down two jobs until he got this one.

Late last year he went on vacation, the first one he had ever taken. He was out for several weeks. Donated a kidney to one of the guys in the church choir. Anonymously. Because, it was the right thing to do.

He tries hard to be a good man. A good husband. A good father. A good provider. To use the teachings of Jesus as an example. Sometimes he feels like he fails miserably. Sometimes, he is right. But, in his world, there is still the concept of "the right thing to do." No matter what. There is always a right thing to do.

You did not even notice he had been gone until the "welcome back" card was passed around to sign. Even then, you just signed it without asking who it was for.

He hates his job, but it pays well and has decent insurance. It allows his wife to stay home and care for their middle son and his medical needs. He tires of the doctors who say the kid has such and such many years to live. He loves all of his children the same. He never questions "Why me, Lord? Why my son?" But, he does tire of the doctor bills and the pharmacy copays. The gas he pays to drive to work.The forty five minutes of traffic he suffers everyday in the car with no heat, no radio, and the ripped up seats. Forty five minutes to work and forty five minutes back home. Five days a week. He tires of the rearview mirror that he keeps seeing that old man stare back at him in. He doesn't know who the hell that old man is, but he knows he doesn't like him very much. There ain't a lot left in his life that he does like, to tell you the truth. But, has never complained. Never, not once

Again, you don't know a damn thing about any of this. But, you have the boxes ready anyway. He doesn't know that this is his last day at work. He doesn't know that you have his job now. Did you remember to thank your father for that, by the way?Just wondering, does your dad even know his first name? The guy has worked for him for twelve years.

He took the long way home today, with two boxes in the back seat full of things he couldn't bear to look at and six months severance pay in his pocket.

He feels like a failure. He feels shame burning across his face. He's felt this way before. But, he did nothing wrong. It's just the economy. The asshole that was elected twice.

She's a good mother and a good wife and a good Christian and he is proud to call her his wife. Even if he has never told her so. He has spent the last seventeen years, at times, sacrificing his happiness for her and for their children. To him, that is his duty. His role. His burden and his gift. He thinks they deserve better than him. That she deserves a better husband. That his kids deserve a better father. That he has failed them. That he is not the man he should be. He doesn't understand what he has done wrong. He doesn't understand how they can love him. He doesn't see himself through anything but that old rearview mirror.

A few days back I received and invitation from my friend Czuch to write one half of a story. Considering that I am relatively new to writing fiction (although the desires to do so have been inside of me for as long as I can remember) it was an offer that I could not refuse. I greatly admire his writing and quite frankly was touched that I would be the one he would approach in this endeavor. Please make sure you follow up with him and check out his blog once it is posted.

The idea is to tell a story in two parts. One from the side of Jesus as a youth and one side from Joseph. It is not our intent to defame or mock or disrespect. These are just interpretations. What would these men really have been like? What ifs. No more than that.

It has been taught to me that Jesus was born a baby and died a man. Little is known of his childhood in between. If he were indeed put on this earth and lived as a boy, I have always believed that he lived as any other child had before. He ran, he played, he laughed, and sang. He wrote is name in pee in the sand. He lived. Long before a Crucifixion, he lived just as a regular boy. That he was allowed a few years of peace to himself to live as a normal human being. He was praised, he was loved, he was stubborn, and he got into trouble form time to time. Just like any other boy. Even if her were not just any other ordinary boy. This is my side of his story.

***

I didn't do anything wrong. I can not believe this. Grounded for two weeks! I didn't do anything wrong. I can't believe father got so mad. It wasn't even my fault. Razeal dared me. It was just water. It didn't even work this time. All it turned into was grape juice. It wasn't even good grape juice!

So, now I am stuck in my room for two weeks. Two weeks! I can't even leave the room for my birthday. No honey and figs, either. Not fair. Mother always makes honey and figs for my birthday. This is so unfair. Who does he think he is my real father?

What am I supposed to do now? He left some papyrus so I can copy the Torah. Whoopie! Said when I was done to make a list of how what I did was wrong. I wasn't wrong! Mother came in and said to forgive him. He was just scared. "It's too soon, Jesus. They can not know yet. It isn't time. Your gifts are not toys. You are not a magician, you are the son of God." I know that! I just wanted to have some fun like all the other boys. Is that so wrong? Is that not allowed? I tried to ask my real dad and he wouldn't tell me squat. If I am supposed to figure this out on my own, this life thing, couldn't somebody let me know that I am doing it right sometimes?

******************************************************

Day 1: I have spent the morning rubbing down the walls. I have been saving scraps of rock from the shop and have managed to get the wall next to the bed as smooth as silk. Three more to go. It would be alot easier if these rocks weren't so big and bulky. Maybe if I think really hard about it and pray, I can make them into thinner slices. Like a thick paper or something that would be easier to hold? Sandstone paper? Hey, people would probably buy that. Maybe tomorrow I can make some paint out of ground up hair and spit and watch it dry. That sounds like fun. I can watch the paint dry. Oh, joy.

Day 2: This sucks camel dung.

Day 4: The walls are done. My hands are on fire and bleeding. Now what?

Day 5: Razeal came to the window early this morning and handed me a bottle of water and laughed as he ran away. Why do I even hang out with that jerk? I need new friends. He never believes a thing I say and is constantly taunting me. Maybe later some locusts will "accidentally" fly up his tunic. I'm not going to do anything, I'm just saying. It could happen. Maybe one could fly up his butt.

Day 7: Tomorrow is my birthday. Woo hoo. I hate my birthday. Same old story year after year. Same stupid gifts year after year. What am I supposed to do with frankincense? I hate that stuff. It stinks. Myrrh gives me a rash and the gold goes straight to temple. I never get to buy anything I want. Would a new driedel be so selfish? Just a litle one, maybe with some lapis letters? Come one, my old one has a crack in it.

Still, I will smile and be thankful that King David did not chop my head off when I was a baby. I will be nice and say thank you and remember the kind inn keeper that allowed me to be born in his stable and say a blessing for him.

I will pretend that I don't see mother crying. I will pretend that I do not know what she is thinking as she peers at me and sobs.The wrinkle in her brow as she sits and thinks too hard about what is to come. But, I know she is counting down the years and wondering how many I have left. How long before I leave and never come back. I will smile and make her smile back. Make her forget, if just for a moment.

Like I am ok with it all. Like my duty, my destiny, does not scare me to death. Like I never lie awake at night and ask "Why me?" Like I asked for all of this myself.

Day 9: I slept most of yesterday. Mother came in quietly and left a plate of figs and honey. On my her favorite plate. It is the one that I made for her my first week of apprenticeship. They were the sweetest I have ever tasted. There was a note from Joseph under the figs:

Have you learned anything yet?

Day 10: I have learned not to let Razeal bother me anymore. I will stop blaming him when he is an ass. I will stop being his friend. I have learned that this is all his fault.

"Go ahead, Jesus. I dare you. I bet you can't do it. You're a liar! You're just the son of a carpenter."

"You jerk! I am not a liar."

"Hah, I told you that you couldn't do it."

"Oh, yeah. You think you could do any better? The only thing you can turn water into is urine. I bet you can't even do that right."

Joseph came up right after Razeal said that thing about my mother. Right as my fists curled into knots. He has no idea how lucky he is. How close he came. I have never seethed with so much rage.

"Love, Jesus! Love your enemy," Joseph said. "You will not achieve greatness with hatred in your heart. It is not what you are here to do. Love, Jesus. Love!" Evident ally, he has never spent much time with Razeal. I know now why some animals eat their young.

Day 12: I am more bored now than I could ever imagine. I have made many drawings. Birds, fish, apples on a plate, that pretty girl from the market. In that one you can see her ankles! Mother would have a fit!

I wish I had some nails to hang them on or something sticky to smear on the back so I could tack it to the wall. Hey, sticky backed papyrus. People would buy that.

Day 13: I still mad at Razeal. I'll show him, though. I will make new friends, ten of them. No, Twelve! See who will be laughing then when he has nobody to talk to or keep him from fondling the sheep.

Day 14: Last day of solitude!!!

Man, I will be so glad to get out of this room and breath clean air and drink water fresh from the well and eat fresh bread again.

Not to mention I really need to go relieve myself. What? I've been locked in a room for 14 days. I'm not going to soil my own floor. That is disgusting.

****************************************************

As the door creaked open and Joseph's face peered in my anger left me. Poof! It was gone like a candle snuffed out. He came in and sat for a very long time on the chair by my bed. He sat still and silent.

I looked at him for a very long time. I had never noticed the lines in his face before. That his beard was nearly completely white. He looked so old and worried and sad.

It was that moment, that exact moment that I finally understood that he was mortal. I have lived my life with the stories of my real father, tales of eternal life, tales of what I must do for the world and for my heavenly father. I had neglected to notice my earthly one. I understood then. I saw it all right then and there. This man that sat before me was not like me. My destiny was decided for me, before I was born. He had a choice. He could have walked away and he made the choice to stay. To love me as his own and prepare me for my journey. As his son. I had never before thought of him in these ways. I had only noticed his rules, his orders, his decisions of what was best for me. I had never noticed before the fatherly love he had for me. How he must have hurt all these years seeing me grow and knowing that he could do nothing to save me from my fate. Trying to be brave and teach me when all he wanted to do was to save me and prevent me from being harmed. Knowing that the future of mankind was in his hands. Literally in his hands. The times he held me when I was hurt or sick or sad. Did her ever feel as though he had failed? Did he ever wonder if he was doing it right? All the years that I had felt the weight of the fate of the world on my shoulders, he felt that weight, too. All of all of that and more. The weight of me as well.

I began to weep as I have never wept before. With bitter shame and joy all at the same time. Why had I never seen this before? Why am I seeing it now? I grasped for breath as my body convulsed with sobbing and grief over the lessons that I had learned. I cried until all my strength was gone. I lay there flat on my stomach as what seemed like hours passed. I barely heard the creak of the chair as he rose. My strength was gone, my soul defeated. I could barely lift my head to watch as he left the room. In the chair sat the dreidel from the market.

This year I am going to try to be nicer. I will probably fail miserably, but I would like to take this time to drop a few apologies to some of the guys in my life. Mostly past, but a couple of current ones, too. No names, you will know who you are.......I am sorry. If you do not see an apology that suits your needs, I am sorry for that, too. I guess I forgot about you. Sorry.

I am sorry about that time I was a bitch to you that one time we had sex. I should have been nicer and told you the truth. You were fucking the side of my leg, the crease between my thigh and my vagina. Where the hip socket is. Essentially you were fucking the inside of my hip joint. There was no penetration. Also, that one thrust in my navel really hurt. I am not sorry for being mean about that.

I am sorry about that time I wouldn't fuck you on the roof of that movie theatre when I was thirteen. I should have realized back then that having your brother was standing fifteen feet away wasn't a valid excuse to turn you down when you wanted my virginity. Nor was the fact that we had no condoms and I wasn't on the pill.

I am sorry for getting drunk and having sex with you on your moms bathroom floor. It was terrible for both of us and ruined a lot of friendships. Plus, it was really, really bad.

I am sorry for kicking you in the nuts so many times when we were in elementary school. You were a jerk. You probaly still are. Still, I should have only kicked you a couple of times and not ten or twelve.

I am sorry that I faked all of those orgasms. The sex was pretty good, just not orgasmic. I will always think of fucking you when I hear Nirvana's Lithium if that helps any.

I am sorry that I made you kiss me. I was too needy and clingy and was trying to grow up too fast. The only memory I have now of my first kiss is of making you do it and since I really didn't even like you one single bit, that really blows.

Sorry for telling everyone you were gay. You were gay, but sorry for telling everyone. It wasn't my place.

Sorry for calling you a nerd everyday in school and constantly insulting you. I was projecting my feelings of insecurity onto you. You didn't deserve it and I sincerly apologize. I think of you when I see that scene in The Wedding Singer and hope someday I can apologize in person so you can cross me off your list of people to kill that ruined your life. I ran into your sister a few years ago. She told me not to feel too bad because you were and still are a loser. Still, I feel bad.

Sorry about that time I made fun of you and made you mad at that club. You were trying to mosh, though. You were the only one on the floor at the time. You can not mosh alone. Throwing yourself against a pole repeatedly does not constitute solitary moshing. It is a sign of mental imbalance and a cry for attention. You looked like a fucking idiot. Even all these years later, I laugh when I think about you doing that. Still, I shouldn't have made fun of you. That was mean.

I am sorry I wasn't there for you when you died. I am sorry your life sucked so damn bad. You deserved more. You were hard to be friends with. You were the biggest (and biggest hearted ) queen I have ever known. You lied all the time, though. You didn't have to do that. I loved you for you, you didn't have to impress me. If you thought for one second anyone believed that you fathered twins, you were a fucking fool. I am not that great at math, but you don't conceive and deliver twins at seven pounds a piece in under seven months. Still, I loved you. I wish we had not lost touch. I wish I didn't have to find out you died six months after the fact. I wish I had been there to hold your hand and tell you I loved you one last time. I hope that God has a few gay angels up there. You deserve to have the peace and happiness you couldn't find on this earth. You looked terrible in drag. You looked like your mother. Sorry.

I am sorry that I never punched you in the throat. You fucking deserved it. Man you fucking deserved to be set on fire in your fucking sleep.

I am sorry that I treated you so badly when you were there for me when I needed you most. I was alone, pregnant and scared when you came over. You came running when I called you, even though we hadn't spoken in a year. I was miserable and trying to sort out my life and grow up, you were still partying and drinking like a fiend. I came down hard on you. I am sorry. I miss your friendship everyday. I am not sorry that I called your house so many times and left all those crazy apology messages. I am sorry that you couldn't be man enough to accept them. I am sorry that you couldn't even call me to tell me to fuck off. I am sorry you are so insecure that you feel the need to give your friends ultimatums about talking to me. I am sorry you make them choose you or me. I am sorry you are that petty. I wish you much happiness and I will cherish our friendship always as one of the most important ones of my life. I miss watching really bad porn with you.

I am sorry that I called you a bastard. Your dad is still alive. I should have called you an asshole.

I am sorry that I never supported your music. I am sorry, but I thought that most of it sucked.

I am sorry that I never told you how much I loved you. I thought you were the one. I never told you how much it hurt when you chose her over me. I know you are happy now and I am and always have been happy for you both. I am sorry that I never said thank you. I know you knew how I felt. You didn't feel the same and you did the best you could not to hurt me. I will always love you for that. You're still one of my favorite people in the world. I will post that story here for you soon. I will dedicate it to you.

I am sorry that I added you as a friend. I was trying to be nice. You seem like a nice guy, really. But, your profile is lame and you have left stupid comments. You really don't know me, nor I you. It is nothing personal. Really. Glitter should be used as sarcasm, not sincerity. I am truly sorry, but you are not welcome for the add.

I am sorry that you want to have sex later after you are done playing World of Warcraft. I shouldn't have asked you to smell my tits after I got out of the shower, I just wanted to see if you would like my new peppermint 3 in one wash from Bath & Body Works. It ain't happening.

Ever feel like you are stuck in a Fellini movie? Yeah, well that was me about 30 minutes ago. There was a cup, a chicken, a ballerina with one hand, and me standing in the middle of the Whole Foods market wondering what the fuck I was doing there.

Eh, you get what I mean.

My Adventures with Whole Foods or Why I am not a good person

First off, I do not actually hate Whole Foods (to be further referenced as WF so I don't have to keep typing it out. Although, since I am taking the time to announce that I am abbreviating, I probably won't even bother using it. I always do that). I like that it gives the upper middle class and snotty rich people an option other than Walmart or the average other chain grocery store to shop in. Oh, and the vegans and the pretentious college students trying to be cooler than you.

I have nothing against vegetarians, seriously. I know a few that are down right cool and I respect the varying reasons that they have for not eating meat. Health, political, etc, etc.... (I still don't get the cheese thing, sorry. I understand the logic behind it, but how can you not eat cheese?). This is not about them. One of my oldest friends, Leif, is a non-meat eater. He's good people. So are some of my friends here. I guess it is the Louisiana crap that I grew up around. These people down here will eat anything. Rats, chicken feet, intestines, pickled pig "fill in the blank."

This is about WF (hey, look I used the abbreviation!) and the wonky ass shit they sell and the crazy ass prices. What the hell?

1. No cheese should cost more per half pound than I make and hour.2. Cornflakes should actually have CORN in them.3. Someone should warn you that the section with the hummus in it is supposed to smell like that. I actually sniffed myself to see if it was me. Not cool WF, not cool.

So, the main reason I went is because its been a while and I was passing it as I left Barnes & Noble. I picked up the new Michael Connelly, one of the Dexter novels by Jeff Lindsay, part two of a new series by a writer I just discovered, and a copy of Children of Men by PD James. It is coming to theaters soon and when I saw the trailer it looked awesome. Thus, I new the book had to be better, right? Plus, I like to read and I like to pick apart movies that were based on books. Also, I like to find new writers to read while my favorite authors are busy writing the stuff I really want to read. In case you were curious, Midnight in the Garden of Good & Evil was one of the best books ever and one of the worst movies ever. Period.

Anyway, I digress.

WF, yeah.. that's what I was talking about. At WF (check me out, I am still using it) I saw a guy stock up on non-chicken chicken broth, noticed that every single box of cereal had animals on them ( but are not actually made of koalas), and that you can buy refried bean powder and add water to make your own refried beans. For about five times as much as the canned kind. This is stupid.

My favorite part of WF is the flower section. I have worked in flower shops for damn near four years, we never had flowers this nice. We had really pretty flowers, don't get me wrong, but nothing compared to these. And, they were actually reasonably priced. There were some beautiful ginger and freesia that I didn't have the money to buy :(

Oh, my other favorite part of WF (are you still reading this? You do know that this is a stupid thing to blog about, right? I didn't have my camera, so there aren't any pictures....I'm just letting you know) is the produce department.

Wow. The colors, the textures, the exotic things that I have never heard of.... I love walking through the produce section. Even if I know that I am not buying squat. No way in hell I am paying $1.99 a pound for apples that I can got to the local produce stand and get for $.79 a pound. No fucking way. So, I walk through and I "browse."

There I see:1. Some fruit that I can not pronounce that is $19.99 for a single piece. I better freaking orgasm if I buy and eat a fruit that cost twenty bucks.2. Cauliflower for $7.99 a pound.3. WTF?????

So, as I am trying to not look like a freaking tourist in my own city (or former city) I devise a plan. If asked if I need something (because eventually someone will notice my blank stare and wrinkled brow) I will ask "Do you have any MEYER lemons?" That way, I will look fancy. Plus, I already checked and they don't have any (what the hell? how can WF not have meyer lemons?) and I will get to say "Oh. Well then" and walk away like the other snooty lady did when they didn't have what she wanted.

So to recap, this is what I learned/ thought today at WF:1. Everything is organic.2. Organic means you pay four to five times as much.3. Nothing is made of what it should be. No corn in cornflakes, no oatmeal in the oatmeal cookies, no meat in the hot dogs.4. Tea that costs $14.99 for 10 bags is staying its ass on the freaking shelf.5. The older the cheese, the more likely that it will cost you roughly what you are paying in rent for a pound.6. No American beer. (except local brewery stuff that blows)7. Japanese people stay thin because they eat things that are gross. My theory is that they can only handle a few bites and then have to stop eating. Because it is gross.8. I now know where to buy canned octopus, should the need ever arise.9. Not alot of fat people shopping at WF. Just me.10. I am willing to try tofurkey slices, but not at $3.99 a pack when it has four times the fat at double the cost of what I buy now.11. I am not coming here again unless I want some cool flowers.12. I like meat.13. I wonder if they can smell the Walmart on me?14. Am I allowed to shop here? I never technically finished college.15. I don't recognize any of these people. Am I in the Twilight Zone?16. Salt flavored toothpaste? Fight gum disease and raise your blood pressure at the same time.17. Why all the flakes? Rice flakes, vegetable flakes, potato flakes, bread flakes....wait, aren't those called crumbs? Are people really buying crumbs?18. I do not belong here.19. Where is the potted meat?20. Damn, that deli section smells awesome. Wow, that open bar looks good.....

Oh, and tofu! My god, the tofu section.

I tried tofu a few years back. It was the plain, regular kind. I came to this conclusion:

Tofu does not exist. It is a figment of your imagination. It is not food. It is not real. It does not make you a better person if you force yourself to eat it. It is cosmically vapid and shallow. It is the black hole of the food industry. It is a conspiracy. It is pure marketing strategy. It is creamy Styrofoam in fancy packaging. It is not real, people. Even if it says it is baked, lemon peppered, Chinese spiced, or smoked. It is not real.

I didn't notice until after opening the plum vinegar that it has 1040 milligrams of sodium per tsp. Also, that whole "plum" flavored thing? It tastes like soy sauce that sat next to a plum on a shelf. $1.99 wasted.

Here were a few stories that came up that I thought I had forgotten about. Damn, you memory!! Damn you straight to heck.

1. Lets call this guy Tiny. Tiny was a guy that I had sex with the first night I met him. We drank some booze and smoked some weed and then had sex. I blamed it on being drunk and stoned, but I wasn't. I was lonely and horny. There. The truth comes out.

I am a fat chick, this is no secret. Tiny was a fat dude. This was also no secret. He was one of those fat dudes that you give a nickname to for the purpose of mocking his size. Why don't those guys ever hate that? They seem to dig it. If one of my friends tried to affectionately refer to me as "thunder thighs" that bitch would be missing a good chuck of her hair and teeth.

But, back to the story. So, things get heavy and lukewarm or whatever and he says he has to go to the store for condoms. Guys like him usually have no chance of getting laid, so condoms aren't really needed around the house. So, he leaves the trailer.....(I could stop here now. I really could.)...... and comes back a few minutes later.

What happens in the next six minutes or so is burned in my brain forever. Bad Sex.

Fellas, here is a tip. If you push a woman's knees up to her chest, don't force all of your bulk down on her thighs to spread them apart to splay them out on the bed. We are not dead chickens. You are not trying to cut us up for shake and baking (at least I hope not). Dislocating a woman's thighs from the hip socket, thus rendering her unable to walk for two days, does not bring about orgasm. This is called pain. When I tell you to stop it, I expect you (even stoned and drunk) to have more than a five second span of memory to fit that in. Stop it means stop it NOW! Not wait a minute and see if she likes it later.

Bad sex. Bad. A totally bad sex.

2. If you can't find the hole and you hit the anus then STOP. Don't just say "Fuck it. It's pretty much the same thing."

No, it isn't.

3. My tits aren't light bulbs. Twisting them will not turn them on. Or me for that matter. Twisting them harder will not make light shine forth from my nipples. If I have to physically hit you in the face during sex to make you stop doing something, we should see other people. Stop means fucking stop.

4. If you really loved me, you wouldn't have to be explained to why I do not want to give you head in the driveway of my grandmother's house. Breaking up with me on Valentine's Day? Fuck you. (I have forgiven this guy and we are still friends. He still apologizes for this to this day and says I was the one that got away. We laugh about it now, but back then I was pissed).

5. I understand that the epi-lady only hurts when there is hair in an area to pull out. I do not understand why you felt the need to ask if you could borrow it to masturbate with. No, you can have it. I don't want it anymore.

Also, vapor rub on the vagina in 30 degree weather...not such a good idea was it fuckface? Trying to wash it off with hot water burned only slightly less than trying to wash it off with cold water.

6. No. It doesn't happen to all guys. It really doesn't.

7. No. You can not fuck my best friend while I watch. Quit bringing it up in the middle of sex. Big turn off.

8. The three way seemed like a good idea at the time. (Shit. I totally forgot until this moment that I ever did this!). Two guys. Hell yes!

Only, hell no. You started and then left the room for me to finish screwing your friend, whom I did not even like. So you could go call my best friend and try to get with her. You could have just told me you didn't like me. Pawning me off on your friend was wrong. It was creepy and gross. You were really bad, too. Limp as a wet noodle. I hear you were like that with a lot of girls.

Sad thing is, I dated your friend after that. Shit, I really was fucked up back then. He loved me, though. I give him credit for that. He could take a sweater off and you wouldn't even notice, but he loved me. Until the blowjob/ driveway thing anyway.

9. Your penis was weird. Really, really weird. It should not taper like that. I am sorry I lied to you to spare your feelings. It should not be an inch thicker at the bottom and narrow up. It was kinda like a sharpened pencil. Only nowhere near as hard. Didn't matter though. It was over so fast.

10. It was the side of my leg. I repeat THE SIDE OF MY LEG!! When I tell you that you are not "in" I mean that you are not in. This doesn't mean to thrust harder. You were fucking my leg. No matter how hard you thrust, it was still my leg.

At first I thought it was crazy, but then it really made me smile and think. The world would be such a better place if there were more people like this, spreading love for no other reason than to make strangers happy and make friends out of strangers. I wondered while I watched this how many people took advantage of this because they were so lonely and desperate for human connection. I wonder how this one hug may have touched and changed their lives or even saved a life, perhaps.

All too often we as human beings, myself more often than I care to admit, fail to see past our own troubles and recognize needs and pain in others. As I watched this video, I wondered what it would be like to change places with this guy and whether or not I was capable of letting myself do such a thing. Part of me would like to say yes, but the greater part of me knows the truth. I would never allow myself to reach out like this and trust complete strangers. I am too cynical for that. That makes me sad beyond measure to say, but it is true.

That I am incapable of such uninhibited joy and zest for life tells me that I am not the person that I was when I was in middle school. The person that waited her turn when the teacher asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. That idealistic (and perhaps a touch jaded) girl that said "Happy. I just want to be happy when I grow up."

Jessica is that person, though. I have always been jealous of her for that and I have always loved her for it, too. I wish there were more people like her in the world as well. She stated that this made her cry and I can see that. It is beautiful in its simplicit message.

This morning I saw a rainbow on my way to work. No matter how crappy or depressed I feel, I simply can not resist a huge smile when I see a rainbow. Seriously, I get this warm fuzzy feeling, huge smile, and look of sheer childhood joy in my face when I see one.

Yes, me. I know that may be hard for some of you to get, but it is the truth.

I hope you guys stop to watch this and get some sort of good feeling or message from it. Anyway, here it is. Here is Jessica's link, too. She's loads of fun and I love her dearly. You simply can't get to know Jessie and not become a better person for it.

I think that you are only a peppy and happy person because you are stupid and blind to the way the world really works. I think you are nice, but you are so damn stupid. So stupid.

I think that you are weak and that your efforts to please other people so that they will like you is going to blow up in your face when they stab you in the back and you get your feelings hurt. I really pity you and feel sorry for you that you aren’t smart enough to realize that.

I think you will never find what you are looking for because you are supremely immature and you will never be confident enough for the type of person you seek to be attracted to you.

I think you both are the best each other can do. I hope that is enough.

I think that I could use a drink.

I think that I am deeper than you.

I wish I could be you. I admire you so much, you and the walls you have built around yourself.

I think you are too selfish and materialistic to be the kind of mother your children need. I think that you do the bare minimum on the important things, like teaching right from wrong. I hate listening to you yelling at people on the phone to get your way. Grow the fuck up. I hate your "It’s all about me and what I want" way of living your life. You’re young. If you don’t change your ways you are going to have a really, really hard and painful life.

I think about you and that night in the bar alot and I feel guilty because I wanted to and you wanted to and you felt guilty about that and I didn’t. I am glad we didn’t, though. Really, really, really glad we didn’t. You deserve better than that.

I think that I am a lousy mother, because my child annoys the crap out of me. A lot. I am trying to be more patient, but fuck. I am afraid that she is going to grow up to be shallow and value beauty over brains and that scares the shit out of me. I try to remind myself that it took 34 years for me to get to my level and that she isn’t going to get there at8.

I think that you shouldn’t have done that. Not even for your son.

I think about getting in the car and just driving and driving and driving. And I think about finding you and running over you.

I think that I need to get back into gear and start walking again now that I am better.

I think that you are crazy. Batshit fucking crazy and I am convinced that you are lying about how you look on the internet and you are really, really fat in real life.

I think that the people who read this will guess on which of these may be about them and 99% of them will be wrong, wrong, wrong.

I think that I will probably die alone or I will die surrounded by family that will be in the act of annoying the shit out of me at the moment of my death.

I try not to think about death.

I think that most actors are really, really over rated and I am so sick of all the skinny pretty men and women that are in every single movie out right now. I miss men that looked like real men and not just really tall girl-boys.

I think Buck Angel is sexy as fucking hell and I don’t give a fuck what you think about that. I would totally fuck him. Totally.

I think that you need fashion counselling. You evidentally have no idea how fat you are, otherwise you would never wear the shit that you do.

I think you stink and I hate the way you smell.

I think that if you win the presidential election, you will be killed.

I think that quilting may not be as easy as I thought it would be. This rotary cutter thing is not as easy as it looks.

I think I want another kid? Maybe??

I think about how old I am getting all the time and I wish I could quit feeling like I am over the hill. I wish I could figure out how to feel young without doing the boozing and partying scene.

I think you might exsist, but I doubt that you notice that I do.

I think you need to shut up, because you look like a fool.

I think you should relax and trust him. I want you to be happy. You deserve it. I think you would be a great mom, too.

I think that politics are boring.

I think that I would let go of it, but I really have nothing better to do.

I think that sex is overrated.

I think that I may benefit from being medicated, but I don’t want to be. I may not be happy, but as long as I’m not miserable I can make do.

I think that you are the best thing to ever happen to me.

I don’t think that I am the best thing to ever happen to you, though.

I think sometimes you should get your feelings hurt. If it teaches you a lesson, then you probably shoud have learned it by now.

I think I am sorry. Check back with me later on that.

I think that time spent placing blame is time wasted. A wise man once taught me that. I always wished he could be my dad. He gives the best advice. I miss you, Hank.

I think that you dress very, very stylish. For 1987.

I think you are stupid if you think your husband isn’t gay anymore. All his groomsmen were ex-boyfriends. They threw his bachelor party. I know what happened there, too. You’re an idiot.

I think winning the lottery would be the best and worst thing that could happen to us.

I think you will never amount to anything.

I think you’re smarter than you know.

I think you’re husband is a complete and utter stupid asshole. You could do so fucking much better.

I think your breast implants are waaaaaaaaaaaay too big. And I wish that we were closer. We loved each other so much when we were little.

I think at least one of my brothers is gay.

I think that you guys are really cool and I had fun hanging out with you. I wish we could do that again, but when I am around you or I think about hanging with you again I feel like I am in sixth grade again and I am so insecure and scared that you guys are just setting me up to laugh at me because you don’t like me and don’t think I am as cool as you.